Royal Holiday Bride. Brenda Harlen

health had rapidly deteriorated over the past few years to the point that King Benedicto and his advisers—and especially his doctors—had agreed it would be best for the country if he passed the throne to his son. It was a position Dante had been groomed for throughout his entire life, his inescapable destiny.

      Not that he was looking to escape. He acknowledged and understood his responsibilities to his family, his people and his country. But he was barely thirty-two years old and he’d always thought he’d have more time before he had to accept those responsibilities—more time to be free before he gave his people a queen.

      But his father had been unrelenting. He hadn’t worried too much about his reputation as a playboy prince, but he was the king now and his country needed a queen. He needed a partner to share his life and a mother for his children—the future heirs to the throne.

      That was one of the primary reasons he was in Tesoro del Mar now—not just to shake a few hands and smile for some photo ops, but to meet Princess Marissa Leandres, the only daughter of the Princess Royal and a cousin of the prince regent. His father was optimistic that he would find the princess “acceptable enough” to consider issuing a proposal of marriage, which would go a long way toward strengthening the ties between their respective countries.

      It was, Dante understood, as good a reason as any for a king to choose a bride. Unlike the childhood song that claimed “first comes love, then comes marriage,” Dante knew that it was more likely “first comes coronation, then comes marriage.” The official ceremony had taken place only a few weeks earlier, and now the clock was ticking.

      And so, at his father’s insistence, he’d paid a thousand dollars for a ticket to this masquerade ball to benefit the Port Augustine Children’s Hospital and dressed himself up like Jupiter, just because Benedicto was certain that Princess Marissa would be in attendance and because he had yet to figure out how to refuse anything his ailing father asked of him.

      “She’s not unattractive,” his mother had informed him, although she’d seemed slightly less enthusiastic than her husband about the idea of the Tesorian princess as her son’s bride. “Just a little more conservative than the women you usually date, but she is always stylish and well put together.”

      Unwilling to rely on his mother’s description, he’d done some research on his own. Finding pictures of the princess hadn’t been very difficult—though she wasn’t frequently on the covers of the tabloids, she did make public appearances for noteworthy causes. It seemed that the Port Augustine Children’s Hospital was one of her favorites.

      He would agree that she wasn’t unattractive. In fact, when he studied her face more closely, he realized that she was actually quite beautiful, if not the type of woman who would ordinarily catch his eye. Medium height, average build, dark hair usually tied back in a braid or secured in a knot at the base of her neck. Her eyes were also dark, her smile as unobtrusive as the rest of her.

      It shouldn’t have been too difficult to pick her out of a crowd, except when the crowd was attired in fancy costumes and elaborate masks. As Dante looked around the ballroom of the royal palace, he realized that he was surrounded by gods and goddesses and various mythological creatures, some that he recognized but many more than he did not. Even the staff were in costume: the waiters as slaves and the security guards as gladiators.

      It was as if he’d stepped into another world, and he had to give credit to the decorators for their efforts. The boundary of the dance floor was marked by tall Roman-style columns wrapped in green ivy and twinkling lights. Beyond the dance floor were round tables covered in white linen with laurel wreath centerpieces. Marble pedestals topped with busts of ancient philosophers had been placed around the perimeter of the room.

      Some of the guests were in formal attire and carried simple stick masks as a nod to the theme; others had elaborate costumes and face decorations that ensured they remained anonymous. For Dante, the one benefit of being unrecognizable in his costume was that he’d been able to forgo having bodyguards flanking him as he moved through the crowd.

      He stepped out of Medusa’s path and fought against a smile as she turned to give a blatant once-over to a centaur. He decided that even if he didn’t manage to locate Princess Marissa, it wouldn’t be a boring night. But he wasn’t willing to give up on his mission just yet. He scanned the crowd again, looking for someone who was trying to blend into the background—an observer rather than a participant. The harder he looked, the more convinced he became that his task was futile.

      And then he saw her.

      The dress was of the richest emerald where it was gathered at one shoulder, with the color gradually transitioning from green to blue until it became a vivid sapphire at her ankles. Her hair spilled down her back, a luxurious cascade of silky red curls. Enormous hammered-gold earrings dangled from her ears and wide bracelets of the same style glinted at both wrists.

      Her mask was an elaborate design studded with blue-and-green jewels with a fan of peacock feathers on one side; behind it, her brilliant green eyes sparkled. Her glossy lips were lush and full and curved in a tempting smile. Her skin was pale and dusted with gold. The slope of her shoulders was graceful and sexy.

      Lust shot through his veins, as strong and fierce as any bolt of lightning his namesake might have thrown down from the heavens. He forgot about his mission to find the Tesorian princess and made his way across the room to her.

      He bowed; she curtsied.

      “Juno,” he acknowledged with a nod.

      Those luscious lips curved. “Jupiter?”

      “Isn’t it obvious?”

      She gave him a slow once-over, her emerald eyes skimming over the gold-trimmed purple toga, gold breastplate, down to the sandals on his feet. “The ruler of the gods is customarily depicted with a beard.”

      “I’m a man for whom practicality trumps convention,” he told her.

      “The facial hair was itchy,” she guessed.

      “And you are a woman who is obviously as smart as she is beautiful.”

      “I know that Jupiter had a lightning bolt. I didn’t know that he had such a glib tongue.”

      “There’s probably a lot about me that you don’t know,” he told her. “But if you would do me the honor of sharing a dance, we could start to fill in some of the blanks.”

      “I’d like that,” she said.

      She placed her hand in his, and he felt the jolt again.

      Her gaze flew to his, and he saw the same awareness—the same desire—in her eyes that was coursing through his blood.

      He lifted her hand, touched his lips to the back of it.

      Her breath caught in her throat and her eyes widened.

      He drew her closer, dropped his voice. “Or we could skip the dance.”

      She shook her head. “A tempting offer, but I want to dance … at least for now.”

      “And later?” he queried, leading her onto the dance floor.

      Her lips curved in a slow, sexy smile that made his heart pound. “We’ll figure that out as we go.”

      He was a good dancer, Marissa noted. He moved easily, naturally, and it felt so good to be held in his arms, close to his body. Her heart was pounding and her blood was humming. For the first time since she’d set her plan in motion, she started to believe that she could go through with it.

      If she could be with Jupiter.

      That this man had chosen to come to the ball dressed as her mythological mate was nothing more than a coincidence, she knew that. And yet, in her heart, she believed it was a sign that she was doing the right thing.

      Or maybe it was just her hormones, because she honestly couldn’t ever remember responding to a man as immediately and intensely as she’d responded to this one.

      She tipped her head